Neither Have I The Wings To Fly
by traveller19
Summary: Several months have passed since Loki's return to Asgard, and with Thor's understanding help, he is slowly learning how to leave behind the pain that drove him during his conquest on Midgard, and is fighting once more with his brother and friends. But when a battle goes terribly wrong for Sif, both she and Loki will not find themselves unchanged for their experiences.
1. Chapter 1

**And now, a story in five parts. All are written, and I will post one every other day. I hope you enjoy! Please review - I love hearing what everyone thinks!**

It is odd, I realize in retrospect, how the experiences that change our lives for the good are so often the ones that nearly end it.

It was as it had been so many times before. Just as when we were younger, riding out on our steeds into the far reaches of Asgard, the six of us ready to face with alacrity whatever adventure came our way. Dressed for battle, equipped with swords and spears and powers, courage and wit, loyalty to each other and to our great realm. Eager to see what this quest might bring, and looking forward to telling stories of our deeds in the times to come.

At least, that is how it appeared on the outside. We _were_ the six of us, once again, just as before, just as we had wished. And yet, everything was so much different.

I glance over at him, guiding his bay to the right of and just behind Thor's massive white stallion. He is looking ahead purposefully, so abnormal for him. Of all of us, he has always been most aware of his surroundings (even more so than Hogun, whose constant mental readiness for battle often strikes others as pessimism).

He is avoiding looking around because he does not want to meet our eyes, I realize. I wonder briefly if he is plotting some scheme - it seems he is never _not _doing so - but it does not take the mind of a trickster god to reason that his manner stems from shame. _And rightly so, for he has so very much to be ashamed of. _The thought sounds harsh - for in our years together growing up and learning about life, such was our friendship, odd though it may have been, that I never would have wished harm upon him.

I do not now, I realize, and this startles me a little. Not long ago I would have fought my way through all of the underworld to get my hands around his throat, make him pay for his treachery, for the pain he caused. My temper has always been a vice of mine, and had it not been for Volstagg's strong hand upon my shoulder, I could easily have ended the traitor's life more than once.

But like us all, traitors and deceivers are subject to the hand of fate, a force stronger even than the gods. And fate acted in the form of a common enemy and so much patience and love - and characteristic refusal not to have his own way - from Thor, so much more of a brother than anyone who might share common blood. I wish I could say that somehow, somewhere along the line jealousy suddenly turned to loyalty and hatred to love, but life does not happen like that. Nearly everything I have observed about the turning tide that is Loki has been in the smallest of stages. And though he has proved himself many times to be one of us again, I fear to truly accept it in my heart. For the worst mistake one can make when dealing with the god of deceit is to think he has chosen a permanent path.

I beckon my mare just the smallest bit closer to him, and in doing so I end up next to Thor. Though he turns to smile briefly at me, he too seems uncharacteristically lost in thought. Perhaps he is wondering how this quest will proceed, but more he is likely worrying over how his brother will fare the experience, this being so great a step in what Thor at least considers to be his healing. So much like the mighty and powerful god of thunder, to be proud and bold and bombastic to everyone but the one person he felt most responsible for protecting. The relationship shared by the two princes had been a subject of much observation by my childhood self, having spent so many hours in the palace myself, as the daughter of a noble couple. We played, and later trained together, and more than once I had seen Thor knock older and bigger boys to the ground if they so much as looked strangely at his soft-spoken, pale, sensitive, _different_ little brother. And though Loki always resisted any attempts to dote on or comfort him in any way with sharp glares and biting remarks, there was never a time of Thor's need when he was not at his elder brother's side, listening and speaking gently, often bringing a smile to his brother's face by turning simple dust into small fireworks or making the contents of a goblet leap and dance with a sweep of his hand. And though many a time I had seen the younger prince look on as his older brother took steps toward his kingly future with jealousy and hurt in his eyes, until the battle with the Jotuns, when everything had unraveled in Loki's mind and heart, those expressions had never been unaccompanied by love.

Knowing that side of him was what, I suppose, made it all the worse when we lost him. It had been so soon after Thor's banishment, and with our fears for the health and life of the Allfather, Loki's terribly misguided reign had almost been too much to bear. What had before been a penchant for mischief and tricks turned into manipulation and cruelty. I learned quickly the information which had set Loki teetering over the edge of sanity, but even though I knew that this terrible revelation and his feelings of betrayal by his family were what had pushed him into this darkness, I could not ignore the fact that he had still made this choice. And when I looked into his eyes that day in the throne room and saw in them only ice, with not a trace of the love or gentleness that I knew he was capable of, it made my heart boil with anger.

But my disappointment and feelings of betrayal outweighed even my temper. I remembered all the times the two of us had snuck about the palace, formulating all sorts of mischief, directed at his brother or our friends or, if we were feeling particularly brave, some of the nobles that always seemed to be wandering about, disrupting our play at the most inconvenient times. Countless times I had sought out an unsuspecting target or kept watch while he untied their boots or turned their breeches bright pink from where he hid. We would barely be able to hold in our mirth until our oblivious victim was out of earshot, and then we would laugh and laugh, and seeing him smile would enhance my joy all the more.

There were few who had the privilege of seeing the younger son of Odin smile more than once or twice in their lives. I always felt they were unfortunate in this, because though the instances of it became increasingly rare as we grew older, when Loki _truly_ smiled, he seemed to do so with every fiber of his being. It would light up his face, straight to his eyes. When he fell between the worlds and we thought we had lost him forever, the thought of never seeing that smile again was like pouring salt into an open wound for me. I had stood out on the balcony overlooking the palace gardens, wanting to be alone with my grief, remembering all the times we had stood out there together over the years. He would conjure up butterflies - one of the only stereotypically feminine enjoyments I held - and make them flit around and land on me. I could still feel the tickle of their tiny feet on my arms. I would gasp with delight and smile until the butterflies vanished because he had been too busy watching my wonder to maintain the incantation. But it never mattered to me, because that smile would be there when I looked up. Whenever I would look back on those moments, they would always make me feel uncomfortably female (very unbecoming of a warrior, especially one trying to prove herself worthy as her masculine companions as possible). But when they were happening, they would thrill my heart and I would wish they would never end. It was only out there on that horrible day, when I could be truly alone, that I had allowed myself to shed tears for him, on the balcony in a garden utterly bereft of butterflies.

For our normally rowdy group of six, we are unusually quiet as we near our destination. I can hear Fandral and Volstagg speaking quietly with each other, with Hogun making the occasional comment, but they make no effort to draw the rest of us into their conversation, and I am riding too far ahead to make out what they are saying. I can, however, make a guess the general context of their conversation-The Warriors Three are not quite so comfortable with the presence of one who had so recently been our enemy as Thor would like them to be. It has been like this ever since we set out yesterday, and camping last night was especially tense. There had been brief talk of strategy, primarily by Thor of course, but not much else. Loki had eaten his small dinner in complete silence and then immediately curled up on his bedroll and the far edge of the campsite, facing the forest. So swift was the transition that I almost went over to him to inquire if he was unwell, but when I observed the way the trickster feigned sleep I realized that trying to speak to him would only make matters worse. What does one say, anyway? And how is it that you can wish so desperately to be reconciled with someone when you cannot let go of your anger at the ways they have hurt you?

Our mission was meant to be a simple scouting out, investigation of minor activity southeast of the palace-though Heimdall the gatekeeper can see actions, he cannot see motivations, and the small incidences needed to be looked into before they amplified. I knew that Thor wished to settle the matter without conflict if at all possible. No longer the rash, foolish boy who ran into Jotunheim with his hammer raised, the first prince of Asgard wished to talk the matters through as peacefully as possible.

When we have approached the sight of the disturbances, we dismount and tie our horses by the bank of a small stream that runs through the forest. We wish to seem the least opposing we can, so we opt for the sacrifice of stature and speed in favor of keeping hold of our weapons, just in case the negotiation process turns unfavorable.

We soon find ourselves in a dense part of the wood. Looking for the rogues' campsite will proceed faster if we divide our forces, so Thor sends Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg to the north. The three of us who remain proceed southward, our footsteps light, our senses on high alert.

We have not gone three hundred paces when we hear Volstagg yell _"Thor!"_. We turn and rush back in the direction of our friends, who are surrounded by the outlaws with jagged blades at the ready, outnumbered by at least two to one. But as we charge we are intercepted by even more. The blood and thrill of battle pounding in my ears, I unsheathe my sword and slash at the first opponent I encounter, dispatching him quickly by cutting open the large artery at his neck. It was a pity he didn't have enough time to realize that his life had been ended at the hands of a woman. After dispatching two more opponents in a similar manner, I have a brief moment to check on the brothers - The Warriors Three are still too far away and hidden by the dense wood for my eyes to make out. To my left, Thor has engaged two enemies simultaneously, striking one with Mjolnir and frying the other with lightning bolts shot from his palm. _Show off_, I think to myself. I see Loki to my right, and for a moment I fear that something is terribly wrong - a particularly large outlaw is charging toward him, and he seems frozen to the spot. But just then I notice his dagger fly unmanned from behind a tree and embed itself in an impossibly perfect location in the enormous man's neck. As the enemy falls, I watch Loki step from behind the tree and, with a disdainful smirk, beckon his doppelganger to become part of himself once more with a wave of his hand.

Satisfied that Thor and Loki are safe and well for the moment, I look around for my next enemy, and am surprised when one does not present itself. Neither of the brothers seem to have any more challengers after the ones I had just observed, and when I listen, I can hear no sounds of battle from where The Warriors Three had been fighting. Taking a few deep breaths, I concentrate on slowing down my heart rate.

"Well," said Thor, looking around at the treetops with a satisfied look on his face and loosening his grip on Mjolnir just a bit, "it appears as though the battle has been won."

And at that moment the forest explodes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you everyone for the reviews! Here is the second chapter. Enjoy! :)**

I do not distinctly recall the sensation of being knocked backward by the force of the eruption, but I attribute that to what I am able to remember - the blinding pain in my right leg. Before I know what is happening, I was being dragged through the trees by Volstagg and Fandral, away from the flames. I faintly recall screaming at them, telling them to stop hurting me. I know now that they were trying to do what was best for my well-being, but it wouldn't have mattered. Moments later we hear one enormous clap of thunder as Thor sets the contents of a cloud loose on the flames. It saves the rest of the trees from catching and roasting us all, but a thick black smoke seeps its way into the crevices of the landscape made by the trees. All of it - the thunder, the smoke - makes my stomach churn and causes me to become even more aware of the pain. I can feel a warm wetness running down into my boot, and I feel nausea come over me as I try to gather the courage to look at my injury. But I have become so weak in such a short time that I cannot even summon the physical strength needed to sit up.

"We have to stop the bleeding." Fandral takes off his cloak and begins to bind my leg with it. The way his face pales as he eyes my wound scares me. I look to the others, hoping their reactions would not be so strong. But Hogun's normally masked expression is frightened, and Volstagg looks even worse - his pallor looks positively ghastly. This cannot be good.

"How bad?" It is all I can get out, and I am astounded at how quickly my ability to communicate has been compromised. They exchange glances and after a moment's hesitation, Fandral shakes his head. We have been through too much together, known each other too long for them not to tell me the truth. They know I have never been fond of euphemisms and making things seem better than they really are, and they will not lie to me in my time of need.

Fandral swallows, but his voice still comes out cracked and hoarse. "You've a gash from knee to ankle, down to the bone. I'm trying to stop the bleeding..." He keeps pressing on my leg and I cannot stop myself from crying out. I feel Volstagg put his enormous hand in mine and I try to squeeze it through the pain, but I am beginning to find even that increasingly difficult.

It is only then, in the silence that follows, that I become aware of Thor yelling. _Stop it, you're hurting my head,_ I think detachedly. But my heart skips a beat when I realize _what_ he is yelling, over and over again.

"Loki! Brother, where are you? _LOKI!_"

My memory slides back to that terrible day alone in the garden, and for a moment I am selfishly grateful that I will not have to experience such grief for him again. For it would not be long before I would be joining him in Valhalla - that much I accepted, and I knew that was where he was now. No matter his past mistakes, he had fought bravely for us since, and he would be rewarded for that. I just hoped that his passage had been quick, and that he had not burned slowly to death, suffering in the way I am now. But I cannot stop the tears sliding from my eyes all the same.

But Thor continues to yell, and suddenly I hear his voice catch as he does so. An agonizing half a minute later I see him striding toward us, the soaking wet, shaking form of his brother in his arms.

He lays Loki down an arm's length from me, holding his hand behind his brother's head to keep it from striking the ground. Kneeling at Loki's side and touching his palm to his brother's cheek, the god of thunder's voice, usually so loud and bold and confident, comes out trembling and terrified.

"Loki, say something. Speak to me, brother."

"Thor..."

Loki seems able to produce even less words than me - all he can manage is a raspy, barely audible rendition of his brother's name, but is enough. It could have been delirium, induced by pain and loss of blood, but I swear I saw tears of relief running down Thor's face. He strokes Loki's cheek, pale beneath the ashes and soot, one time before proceeding to run his hands over him, checking for broken bones and torn flesh.

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

"I don't...don't think so." Loki tries to swallow but ends up coughing instead. And then he keeps coughing, paroxysmal, desperate coughs, gasping for air in between but not being able to get enough. Thor immediately slides a hand beneath his back and tries to help him sit up. Loki, whose state of shock and fruitless attempts to breathe leave him limp as a ragdoll, sags helplessly forward as he continues to convulse. Thor catches him and holds him upright against his chest, powerless to do anything but support his brother's slight frame. As he looks around pleadingly, attempting to seek out some form of help from the rest of us, his eyes alight on me for the first time. I think they widen and his expression grows grave, but it is difficult to say, for spots of black and green are beginning to float across my vision.

"Oh, Sif..." Thor looks to Fandral, who is still pressing down hard on my leg, his hands soaked with my blood. Fandral affords him the same pleading look that Thor had just given him a moment ago.

_It is odd, I cannot remember my life without a single one of the five men who surround me._

Fandral's hands begin to shake as he starts to come to terms with what is going to happen to me. His grip on the sullied tourniquet slips and jars my wound. I experience an explosion of agony, and I cry out - I cannot help it. Loki, hearing it even though he continues to gasp and cough, turns against Thor's grasp to look at me, and his face, pallid already from the shock, goes positively ashen. He tries to speak, but the attempt just makes him cough all the harder.

I want to tell him not to concern himself with me, to save his strength, for I am further beyond hope than he. But speech is beyond my reach now.

Thor is just close enough to reach out and take my hand, still supporting his brother with his other arm. His blue eyes a juxtaposition of shining with tears and being dull with grief, he murmurs,

"Sif, you are the bravest warrior I know, and I will make sure that _everyone_ in Asgard knows it. That you died a warrior's death. They will tell stories and sing songs of you, the great woman warrior, for millennia. And you _will_ be avenged." The tears are sliding down his cheeks now, and his grief overtakes his eloquence. "I am so sorry, Sif..."

My vision begins to blur; I can barely make out the details of his face, and when I look around at my friends - Volstagg, Hogun, Fandral - I can no longer see their expressions. But it is all right, because this way I can allow myself to imagine that they are smiling. Valhalla is a glorious place, after all.

But I can still hear, and the last thing I remember is a voice that I barely recognize as Loki's say quietly but clearly,

"No."

I can just make out him reaching his arm toward me, and then my world falls into blackness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm glad that people seem to be enjoying this so far. :) Most of this chapter is in the past tense because it is told as a story being related after it happened, if that makes any sense. I just wanted to explain the inconsistency in case it wasn't obvious to anyone. :)  
**

I do not wake for three days, and when I finally return to the realm of awareness, I find myself in a bed in the healing chambers of the palace. Volstagg sits alone at my beside, Fandral and Hogun having gone to report to Odin. Despite having already been told by healers that I would survive, I see tears of relief spring to the enormous man's eyes. While I do not think that all of this weeping by grown men over me says much for my status as a warrior, I do not chastise him. I would not have had the strength to do so, anyway. What I do manage to say is probably the most stereotypical thing anyone says when awaking from a prolonged comatose state during which they almost lose their life, and I believe I sound completely idiotic.

"What happened?"

Volstagg is a gifted storyteller, becoming fully engaged in his tales as they carry him to another world. So I know that when he begins to recount the events, both from his memory and from what was told to him by Thor, I will be left to listen in peace, not required to contribute anything but my ear. I am glad of it, for I am utterly exhausted. Settling back in his chair and adjusting the fall of his long red beard, Volstagg begins the tale.

All four of the others had turned to look in surprise at Loki when he had spoken, and so none of them saw exactly what happened to me when he reached out. All they knew was that when they turned back to me, I was gone. Completely gone. Vanished. And Loki had finally stopped coughing, for he had fallen limp in Thor's arms, unconscious.

His eyes wide, Fandral stared at the hands under which I was no longer, not an inch of skin visible through the sticky, pungent blood that coated them. Then he looked at Loki, and then at Thor.

"What has he done with her?!" Though phrased as a question, it was undeniably an accusation. Fandral had not even tried to hide that, but he backed off of his intensity a bit when Thor turned to growl at him in a manner resembling an angry dog. He did not answer the question, turning his attention once more to his brother.

"Loki! Come brother, wake up for me. Please wake up." He patted the pale cheek, and when that got him nowhere, he began to shake Loki's side, as one young god of thunder might wake one young god of mischief from a nightmare involving frost giants. But Thor ceased this action immediately when Loki made a gut-wrenching gasping noise, and then proceeded to wheeze laboriously with each breath he took. Thor looked horrified at what he had caused.

"No no, Loki. Do not do this, brother..."

"Thor," Hogun's voice interrupted him. "He cannot hear you-let us not waste time trying. We must get him back to the palace."

Thor looked at him as though he had just suggested that they abandon Loki to die in the wilderness. "We cannot move him! He can scarcely breathe just lying here!"

Hogun's reasonable tone contrasted with Thor's desperate one. "He must be seen by a healer. He has breathed in too much smoke. He cannot cough it out as long as he is unconscious. The healers will be able to revive him, help clear his lungs."

Thor pressed his brother's hand as he gazed upon him quietly for a couple of seconds, as though he were asking his forgiveness for what he was about to do. And then, turning back to The Warriors Three he said,

"Then I suppose we have no choice. Come Volstagg, help me lift him onto my horse."

Volstagg moved to obey, but Fandral's voice, cold and sounding unlike anything any of them were used to hearing from him, stopped him.

"What. Has. He. Done. With. _ Sif?_" Each word was punctuated, deliberate.

In Thor's defense, I do not believe that he had forgotten about me. I know his mind-because it was obvious there was nothing more he could do for me, he had simply turned his full attention to Loki. He glanced at his brother, and then his face dawned with realization.

"The healing chambers!"

"He _teleported_ her?" Fandral sounded incredulous.

Thor nodded. "He was already weak from the shock-it must have been all he could manage. Or else he would doubtlessly have gone with her."

The fact that Loki was still there and I was not made Fandral all the more mistrustful of the god of mischief, and he snorted. "Of _course_ he would have."

Thor was upon Fandral, nostrils flaring and his grip tightened upon Mjolnir, nearly instantaneously. His tone was dangerous, angry and betrayed simultaneously.

"You will _not_ speak of my brother that way! If Loki had not known what this feat would cost him, he would have tried to take both himself and Sif back to the palace, and perished in the process. But instead he sent her back alone and now lies here, depleted of every ounce of his strength. And you try to tell me he did not do this with Sif's best interests at heart!"

Volstagg and Hogun stood by, tense and ready, not wishing to have to dishonor their superior but ready to jump to Fandral's defense if needed. But Fandral stepped backward, dipping his head slightly to show his deference to Thor. Whether it was from actual agreement with what he had said, or simply for the sake of avoidance of conflict with the large, powerful god of thunder, was unclear to the rest of them. Thor stared him down for a moment, blue eyes narrowed, and then turned with a motion to Volstagg to assist him. Thor slid a hand beneath Loki's back, and Volstagg behind his knees, and together they hoisted him onto Thor's white stallion. Thor swung up behind his brother before his unconscious form could slide off. The Warriors Three mounted as well, with Fandral leading my mare beside his grey and Volstagg tying Loki's bay to his chestnut. By the time they started off, Thor was far in the distance.

Despite the wind rushing in his ears and the jarring motion of his horse's gallop, Thor was never unaware of his brother's unhealthy breathing. He could feel the uneven shudder of the thin chest against his arm as he held Loki against his own body, attempting both to control his horse and keep his poor brother from tumbling to the ground. It felt so intuitively wrong, to be riding so far at such a breakneck pace-it could not be good for Loki. But Thor kept telling himself that if they did slow down or stop to rest, it would take that much longer to get his brother to a healer, and it would not make him any better for it.

They rode through the night and into the morning, the stamina of Thor's Asgardian destrier unmatched and unwavering. By the time Thor turned his horse onto the causeway that led into the city proper, the sun was high in the sky. He reigned up in front of the palace and yelled to the nearest guard to see to his exhausted steed. He carried Loki into the healing chambers himself, ignoring the offers of help from several of the palace sentries.

Eir, the chief healer for the royal family and those close to them, had been informed by Heimdall of their coming, and met Thor at the door. She motioned them to the chamber next to the one where I lay (unbeknownst to Thor), the bed already made up. As he laid his brother down, Thor's summary of the situation was brief, not wishing to delay a second more than was needed.

"There was an explosion. He is not injured, but I believe he has breathed in too much smoke." He did not continue beyond that, for his gaze had fallen upon his brother's face for the first time since Thor and Volstagg had hoisted him up on the horse the previous day.

Loki looked absolutely terrible. Sweat had streaked the grime on his face, leftover from the explosion. But even beneath the layer of filth, it was obvious that his complexion was as white as the bedsheets upon which he lay. And his breathing had worsened drastically-each breath seemed to take more effort than the last, and there was a sickening rattling noise in his chest that Thor had not been able to notice as they had ridden. Thor had the sudden impulse to reach out and take his brother's hand, but something stopped him. Never mind the fact that Loki had just survived nearly two days on a horse at a full, nonstop gallop in this condition-suddenly he seemed so delicate it was as if Thor but touched him, he would shatter into a million shards. The idea that, despite his incredible efforts to get Loki back to the palace as quickly as possible, it might still be too late to save his little brother flitted across his thoughts, and he tried desperately to push it away. But there was no help for it-the awful notion had already manifested itself in his mind.

Thor watched nervously as Eir placed two healing stones into a mortar, along with leaves from the Great Tree of Yggdrasil, and ground them together to make a paste, her ageless face drawn tightly in concentration. When she was nearly finished, she nodded in the direction of Thor and Loki and said, her voice characteristically both calm and business-like.

"Open his clothing so that his chest is exposed."

It was perhaps the fastest and most willingly the obstinate god of thunder had ever followed an order. Scooping the dusty mixture up with her fingers, Eir messaged the medicine into Loki's bare skin, covering the area from his lower throat to the top of his ribcage. Thor watched quietly, then suddenly asked,

"Eir, what of the Lady Sif?"

Without looking up from her work, Eir replied, "The Lady Warrior lives, and she will make a full recovery. I have put her in a healing sleep-she rests in the next chamber."

Thor breathed a small sigh of relief. When Eir had finished, she wiped the residue from her hands on a towel, and then, bending down so that her face was at the same level as her patient's, laid her hand upon his brow and began to speak softly.

"You have been very brave, young prince. Your scheme has been realized, and this time your actions speak of true royalty. You are back at home, where you belong. The time to preserve your strength is over-now you must turn your attention to healing your body. Wake now, Loki, Son of Odin."

As she spoke his name, Thor saw his brother's eyelids flutter weakly, and his heart pounded in his ears for a tense moment. But then he saw green eyes looking into his own, and he felt a wave of relief wash over him. There was a brief flicker of confusion in Loki's gaze, and Thor took it upon himself to call him back to full recognition.

"Brother," he murmured, and he took Loki's hand in his own, the seemed spell from before that had prevented him from doing so now broken. He felt Loki's fingers close lightly around his own. And then, more a breath than a whisper, so softly he had to strain to hear,

"Brother..."

It was the first time Loki had called him that since just before his attempted coronation nearly a year ago. His anger at Odin for keeping his true origins a secret had boiled over so much that he had lashed out against Thor as well, channeling over a millennium of jealousy and pent-up resentment into a rage so cold it burned like the touch of ice. It was true that, after weeks of comfort during his punishment and the following many months of attention, Loki had begun to soften, bit by incredibly tiny bit, toward Thor. But until now, he had not acknowledged the kinship they had shared so long. Thor had worried that, in his madness, Loki had completely forgotten their entire past-every childhood game and adventure, every night spent huddled together in Thor's bed because Loki had had another nightmare about Frost Giants, every word of comfort or kiss on the brow during illness, every training session during which they had both learned to focus their powers and delighted each other in what they could do, and every battle during which they had fought, side by side. Shared blood or not, they were brothers. And somewhere in the darkness into which he had fallen for the past two days, Loki had finally remembered that.

Thor did not trust himself to speak. He just nodded and smiled through tear-filled eyes. For a moment, Loki looked upon him with something that might even have been described as love, but then his battered body finished taking stock of the condition it was in, and he was wracked with paroxysmal coughs just as he had been before losing consciousness in the forest. This time, however, it was Eir who helped him sit up as Thor looked on worriedly.

"What can be done for him?" inquired the first prince of the healer, eyes wide.

"He needs to be rid of the debris and toxins in his lungs. At the moment, he seems to be doing an adequate job of expelling them himself, with the help of the salve. Other than continued application of the medicine, the most vital thing is rest."

Loki's coughing fit had subsided for the moment, and he slumped back wearily against his pillows as Eir examined him for signs of other injury, feeling him all over and checking for signs of fever or continued shock, and then listened for a long time and with great concentration to his breathing.

"He is by no means healthy," she said finally, "but I do not believe this will claim his life, thanks to your quick action. Had you taken another day to get him here, the news would not have been so welcome."

Thor swallowed and nodded, never once taking his eyes off of his brother.

"You will be staying with him, I presume?" Eir got to her feet.

"I would not leave his side if the palace was crashing down around us."

"You were always so loyal to him." One corner of Eir's mouth twitched upward for a moment in amusement before she reassumed her characteristic, business-like manner. "If he begins to struggle with breathing or is in pain, send for me immediately. Have him drink water and a small amount of broth." She then turned to Loki and stroked a hand down her patient's grimy cheek.

"Rest well, sweet prince." Loki could only gaze back at her, a small amount of gratefulness mingled with an almost overwhelming exhaustion in his eyes. She was one of the few people left on our world who would speak to him that way, with such gentleness and affection. Eir had carried Loki through many difficult childhood illnesses, and as a consequence she knew the reserved second prince better than most and remembered how he had been before his fall.

When the healer had left, Thor turned to helping Loki out of his battered regalia. Loki lay limp with exhaustion and allowed his brother to manipulate him in any way he needed, tensing his body only to succumb to yet another burst of coughing. It seemed as though the paroxysms were the only thing keeping him consciousness until suddenly, when Thor had finished putting him into a nightshirt and was cleaning his ash-covered face with a damp cloth that his eyes shot wide open and he became rigid.

"What is it, brother?" inquired Thor worriedly, fearing another manifestation of Loki's condition.

"Sif," whispered Loki fervently, as though breaking suddenly from a delirium. "Is she...?" He was doubled over once more before he could finish the question, but his meaning was clear.

"Never fear, brother. Our dear friend lives, and Eir says that she will recover fully."

Loki uttered the smallest of sighs before immediately falling into the beautiful, dark tendrils of sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**So, this is a sort of short and wimpy chapter. Sorry. :) But the last chapter is much longer, so it evens out! This is just where there was a good breaking point in the narrative. Thanks for the continued reviews! :)**

Being bedridden in the healing chambers is not my ideal form of leisure. I begin to measure the passing of time by the rise and fall of my pain levels, and by the entrances of Eir to tend to me and provide me with medicine. The tonics, awful though they taste, bring the pain in my leg from a blazing fury that leaves me cross-eyed down to a dull throbbing, and it is during those times of relative relief that I find the solace of rest.

After I wake from the healing sleep, it is a day and a half before I find I have the strength and presence of mind to sustain a conversation. All of the members of the Warriors Three come to visit me at once. It is the first time I have seen Fandral or Hogun since the battle, and I must admit that the looks on their faces upon seeing me awake and recovering warm my heart. I hate that they are seeing me like this, weak and so very vulnerable, but I would never deny them, not after what we have been through. I would especially not deny Fandral, for I can still remember the pain in his eyes as he held the tourniquet to my wound. Fortunately, he does not shed tears as Volstagg did - such is not his way. He just smiles warmly and acts as though he will clap me on the shoulder, but stays his hand at the final moment and slowly lays it on my arm and presses it gently. I roll my eyes at him affectionately, not wanting to let on the fact that I am actually feeling in no condition for shoulder-clapping.

I ask about what has happened in our realm whilst I have been confined to the healing chambers, and Fandral and Hogun speak of their audience with Odin. The Allfather has decided that the matter of the outlaws must be dealt with, but not without an army and much strategizing. He wants to minimize the risk to our people. I silently agree. I do not wish my pain or my near-death experience upon any other Asgardian.

Although I love my friends dearly, their enthusiasm at my pending recovery wearies me just a touch, so I am grateful when Thor walks into my chamber and reminds the warriors gently that they have work to do to prepare for the next encounter with the outlaws. They take their leave reluctantly - Hogun nods and wishes me well, Fandral smiles, and Volstagg pats my arm. And then they are gone, and it is just me and Thor.

"They are very pleased that you pulled through," Thor muses, glancing in the direction the others have vanished.

"It would be difficult to find better friends," I murmur. It is not something I would normally say, but after recent events I feel the statement is warranted. But the Warriors Three are not the only people I am referring to, and Thor obviously catches my meaning, for he turns back to me and smiles just a little.

"How are you, Sif?" he asks, his low voice soft.

"Better," I answer honestly, although I do not know that I can say the same for him. There are dark circles beneath his blue eyes, which are twin harbors for worry, and it suddenly occurs to me just how much pressure he must be under. He is consumed with his responsibilities as the commander of our military force, while simultaneously worrying about me, and to a higher degree, Loki. Thor has been so devoted to his brother's recovery since their return from Midgard, and I know that his attentions have been effective, for I have already heard his story from Volstagg. But while I could do little more than listen then, I have gained strength in the period of a day, and when my suspicions of the location of Thor's mind are confirmed by the way his gaze flicks almost unconsciously to the wall behind which his brother lays, I inquire of him,

"How fares Loki?"

"He is doing better," says Thor, quietly and reflectively. "He is weak and unwell, but he is recovering. He is resting now; our mother is with him."

It is almost as though he feels the need to reassure himself that coming to me was all right. I know he would rather be at his brother's side than at mine - friends though Thor and I have always been, I know where the utmost of his loyalties lie, especially now that he feels the need to make up for inadequacies he never even knew he exhibited. For a moment, I feel a flash of my old anger at Loki for judging Thor's attentions to not be enough. Surely someone so intelligent as Loki could see how much Thor loves him! But then I remember all the times during our childhood when we had run off to the training rings in our spare time and left Loki alone. It was something I had never allowed myself to think about until he fell. I do not like it, so I change the subject.

"When will the attack on the outlaws be?"

"Soon," he replies, and there is an unspoken coda of _"too soon"_. "Within a week, maybe sooner. I am to lead the army, with the Warriors Three at my side. We know what to expect now." He shook his head suddenly, frustration and anger crossing his face. "We will not underestimate them this time. I never should have to begin with. This," he gestures to my leg and in the general direction of Loki, "is my fault."

"Thor." I make my tone a warning, and he breaks off, though shame is still etched upon his countenance.

"You could not have known," I continue. "There was no reason for you to expect what happened. Even the best of leaders is not infallible."

"You almost died," he pointed out. "So did Loki. If you, if _either_ of you had, it would have been because of my carelessness."

"But we didn't," I point out. I really do not wish to continue this conversation with him - I have been awake too long, and I am growing more exhausted by the minute, and my leg throbs. I wish to comfort and reassure my friend, but I am afraid that my strength is failing rapidly. I must have allowed my pain to show on my face, for Thor finally seems to become aware of my discomfort.

"You are unwell," he notes, blue eyes alight with concern. "Should I send for Eir?"

"I am fine," I reassure him, although he does not look convinced. "There are only so many tonics she can give me at one time anyway," I add practically, which seems to mollify him. He sighs and nods. To tell the truth, I wish it were time for Eir to come - my leg aches all over, as it always seems to for some time before the healer's return with more medicine. I want nothing more than to close my eyes in silence whilst I wait for Eir, but I do not wish for Thor to know just how poorly I feel. He has enough on his mind at the moment.

"You should return to Loki," I prompt. "I think your presence would be of some good to him." It is the truth, as I have observed it. Ever since the princes returned to Asgard, Thor's refusal to believe his brother a hopeless cause has been a constant entity, even when it was clear that Loki himself did not agree. I cannot say that I know the details of their slow reconciliation, but I feel it safe to form a conjecture that without Thor's unwavering faith and attention, Loki would have remained unrecognizable from the Loki I used to know - the Loki whom I sometimes wonder only Thor and I ever saw.

The corner of Thor's mouth twitches upward a little at my comment. "And my presence is of no good to you?" He is attempting to make a jest, I know, but the words come out sounding a little sad.

His hand is resting on the bed within my reach, so I pat it a couple of times.

"You know what I mean."

He tries to chuckle, but it comes out as a sigh. "Yes. I do." He places his hand over mine and squeezes lightly, and then rises. He has nearly reached the door when I call after him, nearly without planning my words first.

"Thor..."

He turns, gazing at me inquisitively. I continue.

"Tell Loki...tell him that I hope he has a swift recovery."

Thor studies me for a moment before he responds, and I think he catches the dual meaning in my words.

"I will," he says with a soft smile. "I thank you. And I hope you have the same."

Once he is gone and I am alone, I relax against my pillows and shut my eyes, trying my best to ignore the pain in my leg. _A swift recovery._ If I had been able to think straight, a _thank you for saving my life and the near expense of your own_ might have been a nice addition to that. But then again, I have always lived my life in a specific attempt to embody the antithesis of the damsel in distress. The thought of having to thank someone - someone of the male sex, to make matters worse - for saving my life horrifies me.

But then that awful thought of our childhood and how lonely Loki always seemed arises in my mind again, and as terrible as it makes me feel, I force myself to dwell upon it. And as I do so, I realize that maybe sometimes, what I want is not always the hub of every situation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Here's the last chapter! I'm glad a lot of people seem to be enjoying this one. :) Writing romance isn't something I do a lot, so I hope this last chapter works for you guys. Please review, and thanks for reading!**

The days pass in a nearly excruciating quiet. It is as though I am trapped in the calm eye of a powerful storm, and things are swirling and eddying around me but I must remain separated from it all, and yet surrounded by it. Asgard is preparing to ride against the outlaws once more. My friends are going to battle without me. The first prince and his warriors are going to fight; the goddess of war must stay home. Such cruel irony.

My leg hurts less by the day as Eir's potions work to heal me. One week after the explosion, the wound is no longer open, but rather a long, ugly scar running from my knee down to my ankle. I wonder if I shall ever be able to wear short clothing again. It is a vain thought, for someone who should be grateful only to be alive. But I am too disillusioned with having to stay behind from the fight to police myself.

I find myself growing restless, and the day my friends leave for the mission, I find myself able to stay in bed no longer. Thor and the Warriors Three are off fighting for the safety of our people - is it too much to ask that I can at least leave my bed and think that I am accomplishing _something_? So I ask Eir if I might get up and walk around a little. She eyes me very closely, attempting to assess if I am being completely honest when I say I will not overexert myself or put too much strain on my leg. Finally, she agrees, but insists that I take it slowly. She watches me walk around the room twice, as I test the extent to which I can bare my weight. I can only take a few steps at first without having to stop and lean on something, but soon I determine how to adjust the pattern of my gait so that I can go further. She is still suspicious, but when I promise her that I will only go for a turn about the near corridor, she sighs and sets me free.

Of course, I have far more lofty intentions than just walking down the hall. I hobble my way down the corridor to the garden balcony, at least twice the distance I promised Eir I would restrict myself to. I am thankful that this area of the palace seems to be relatively vacant so that few may see the decrepit state in which I find myself. By the time I reach the balcony, I am admittedly a bit out of breath - in my own defense, I have not been on my feet in more than a week. And I did lose a good deal of blood.

When I arrive, I realize that while the corridor was mostly bereft of people, the overlook itself is not. Next at the edge, dressed in a soft, light green tunic and black trousers, hands resting on the railing, stands Loki. He turns to me, no doubt alerted by my heavy breathing, looking surprised at my presence.

"Lady Sif," he says, motioning to a pair of chairs as if to offer me a seat. I shake my head, beginning to regain my wind.

"I have been off my feet for over a week. I cannot stand to sit for another second." I come haltingly to stand near him and lean against the rail as he does. He looks momentarily unconvinced, but then nods.

"I feel the same way." His voice is even softer than usual with a hint of hoarseness, and the pallor of his face is of an even sharper contrast to his black hair than I am accustomed to seeing. He certainly looks as though he has been unwell. But then again, I am sure that I do, as well.

"Will Eir be as angry with you if she finds you out here as she will be with me?" I adjust my weight to take some of the pressure off of my right leg. It is holding up better than I expected, a finding which I note with pleasant surprise.

"She sent me here. She said the fresh air would be good for my lungs," he responds, but then adds in a quieter voice, with just the smallest hint of his old mischief, "But I am not supposed to be on my feet."

I feel the corner of my mouth twitching upward the slightest bit, just for a moment. We were both always stubborn and defiant in equal shares, but he in a subtler way than I. But there is more to the story. I can tell by the way he gazes wistfully, worriedly across the garden toward the southeast that, despite his lack of penchant for battle, he wishes to be fighting alongside our comrades just as much as I, although perhaps it is for a different reason. I long to be a part of the action, to fight as I am destined to, to not be left on the sidelines like an invalid. I belong on the battlefield. He worries for the safety of his brother, and wishes to be there to look after him should the battle go ill, just as Thor has looked after Loki for months without end. And Loki is, for the first time since their return from Midgard, without his brother at his side. Alone, to fend for himself. And he is uncertain - I can feel it radiating from him. I find I do not wish for him to feel uncertain around me.

"They will be all right," I say confidently, for I honestly do believe it, for the most part. "They are prepared this time - they know of what the outlaws are capable, and they have a much larger army than just six. And Thor is a good strategist, and a great leader."

He nods wordlessly, eyes still tracing the horizon. Then,

"I know. A few months ago I would have said in dark jest that he did not know friend from foe in a battle. But he has learned, and he has changed. I know they will be all right, but I cannot help but be apprehensive all the same, if only for selfish reasons." He looks down at his hands as he interlaces his fingers together thoughtfully over the railing, not meeting my eyes. He is being startlingly honest after having barely spoken to me for months. I wonder if it has something to do with both of our near-death experiences, but I find it difficult to speak to him in the same way. Try as I might, I cannot put all of my remaining emotions at his previous actions to rest. Or perhaps it is because discussing the inter-workings of my heart has never come easily to me.

He looks up briefly to judge my reaction. He is so trained at reading people - one must be in order to manipulate them as he does, I suppose - and he notices my reluctance. His countenance clouds over, and he tears his eyes from mine once more. When he speaks again, his voice has taken on a bitter quality - it would have sounded harsh had it not been so hoarse from over a week of coughing.

"But of course my reasons must only be selfish. Why should you expect anything more from me? The traitor, the murderer, the monster. I cannot say I blame you."

I sigh internally. While the secret of Loki's heritage is unknown to most of Asgard, partially for his own protection, the Warriors Three and I were told the story by a grieving Thor not long after what was thought to have been his brother's death. And while Thor seemed to have been reconciled with the realization from the moment it occurred, Loki continually seethes at the idea that he is a member of a race hated by the closest thing he has to a community. I once overheard Thor reassuring him, saying that he should not think less of himself because of his native realm. But Thor's words fell on deaf ears - Loki had turned away and refused to respond.

I can understand why. We were always taught that the Frost Giants, the Jotuns, were an evil race. When I was but a babe, they attacked Midgard simply because they could. They would have obliterated an entire race had the Allfather not stopped them with Asgardian reinforcements, a force to rival and overpower their own. From the time we were children, we always knew that the Frost Giants were the enemy, because our victory against them brought us together. Asgard had been victorious; Jotunheim had fallen. And caught in the middle of it all had been one quiet, different little prince. A prince who had not been able to grasp just what it was that made him feel so inferior. And when it had been laid at his feet, he had retaliated out of pain. He could no longer celebrate with a people who were not his own. Everything he had known, even the people he loved, had been broken within his heart.

"There is nothing wrong with selfishness when it is born of love," I say, more softly than I am accustomed to.

He scoffs. "What brand of selfishness is _not_ born of some sort of love? Of oneself, of possessions, of _power_. Love is inherent within the very definition of selfishness."

"What of love of another person?" I ask. He does not respond, nor does he meet my eyes. For a moment, my thoughts are of Thor. Of him lying on the street in Midgard, mortal body bleeding and dying. Of the tears in his eyes and the way his voice shook when he told us of Loki's demise. Of the convoluted mixture of hope and betrayal on his face when Heimdall informed us of Loki's actions on Midgard. Thor is a good man, and a dear friend, and the fact remains that Loki has done much to injure him.

But Loki, as he has a habit of doing, draws my thoughts back to his own person. After all that he has been through - betrayals of his own, all of the lies and the secrets, and centuries of being overshadowed by his brother, the future king - he can still find it somewhere within the depths of his shattered heart to love Thor. And despite the atrocities he has committed, I must admit that I admire him for that, for somewhere within his profound weakness, he has found strength.

"Loki," I begin. He still does not look at me, so I do not think he notices my wince as I shift my weight again. I am about to be more vulnerable with him than I have with anyone in quite some time, and I want to be as comfortable as I can for it. "Back on that battlefield, when you sent me back to the palace...you nearly died because of what you did for me. And do not argue that it was an instinctive decision, because a natural instinct is to protect oneself rather than others. So forgive me if I am finding it difficult to call your actions _selfish_."

He does look over at me then, eyes full of uncertainty. It is as though, in this onset of insecurity and self-loathing, he has entirely forgotten the reason he has spent the past week in the healing chambers.

"I did what anyone would have done," he says, his logical tone of voice for some reason infuriating, the feature probably exacerbated by the effect of my physical pain.

"No," I say, my voice firmer than before. "It matters not what anyone else would have done. It only matters that _you_ did it. And..." I do not wish to think of it, now that the immediacy of the possibility has passed, but I force myself to say it anyway. "...And I am here rather than in Valhalla because of you."

An angry sort of pain flicks over his face again. It is the opposite response from the one I wished to elicit.

"No doubt you would rather have been there, feasting with the great warriors of Asgard, than stranded here on a balcony with _me_ while everyone else goes to battle." He seems mortified with the realization that he dragged me from the gates of the most glorious realm in all of the universe. This is not what I intended by my words at all. _Norns_, why must he be so frustrating? My leg throbs and I lean even more on the intricate, iron balcony railing, trying not to let him see.

"There was a moment I thought you had beaten me there," I say, trying not to sound too dramatic about it. His eyes widen and his lips part as though he is stunned at my words. There is a candle-flame of hope that dances in his viridian eyes - those beautiful eyes -but it is extinguished in but a moment.

"Do not make jests about such things, Sif," he says, and I can see that his knuckles are pale where he grasps the railing. "We both know I would have never accompanied you to Valhalla. Not after the havoc I wreaked, the pain I caused. You are a warrior; I am a trickster and a killer."

"You saved my _life_!" I cry, suddenly desperate to make him see the folly in his normally watertight reasoning. "And not just because it suited you."

"You know not my motivations!" He whirls on me and utters the words just as quickly as I did to him, but upon saying them quickly clamps his mouth shut and turns to stare down at the gardens again.

"Do I?" I ask, my voice infusing itself with a small portion mockery of its own accord. His cheeks flush pink and he flounders for a way to recover. Whether it be a week of illness slowing his reaction time or simply a state of being truly flustered, all he can seem to do is divert the subject of conversation in the direction that seems to permeate his mind most thoroughly.

"Do you truly believe it? That I would have gone to Valhalla?" His eyes meet mine, and I can see desperation apparent in them, a desperation almost akin to the one my mind told me he must have exhibited as he held onto his brother by one hand, dangling from the Bifrost. The image had haunted my dreams for months after the event, despite the countless times I had attempted to push it away from my subconscious. Such a question coming from him is surprising, and that is using a mild term. And suddenly I realize that his emotions have been stripped just as bare and raw as mine. I gaze at him unwaveringly, so that he can see my eyes and know that I am telling the truth that resides in my heart.

"I think that had we both perished, I would have arrived at the table of the Great Feast and seen you there as I once knew you. Someone who loved his mischief but never hurt people with it, and was assured of his place in the hearts of his family and his friends. Your hurts healed, your crimes absolved, you would accept the efforts of those who reached out to you..." _Even if they do not know how to express themselves properly._

"What _is_ this, Sif?" He still refuses to believe what I say, perhaps because he has not heard such words from someone other than his brother and mother in so, so long. "Not so many months ago, you would have been the first in line to see my head on a platter! And now...now you say..." He trails off, shaking his head. He looks pale - he must feel the strain of his illness just as I feel the pain in my leg. But his eyes shine with unshed tears, and I can tell that he his losing the battle of retaining what little composure he has left. I find myself reaching out to lay a hand on his forearm, before the beginning of the soft green sleeve, so that my skin touches his. He tenses for a moment, almost as though the sensation is foreign to him, but then relaxes, slowly.

"I say that we have both changed. For the better, if I might be so bold." _I no longer see only the path just in front of my face. I have realized that even killers have pain, and that sometimes people wish with all their heart that they could take back their actions. That they could do something to make up for it all. And I have learned not to judge a situation before I know the whole story._ "We cannot live as we once did - too much is different now. But...I do not think that is necessarily a bad thing."

"I do not want it to be different," he says softly, catching me once more by surprise. It is as though he has grown so very weary of hating himself and feeling guilty for his actions that he simply cannot continue anymore; he yearns to return to that internal place of comfort he had so many years ago, a place he could be with those he loved and who loved him and not feel the weight of the universe around his neck. Then, he amends. "At least, not everything."

I feel the slightest of tickles on my arm, and when I look down, there is a butterfly nuzzling my skin with its tiny feet, ever so gently. It flutters its wings a little - they are a sky blue and light brown, the color and pattern of an old map. Intricate, complicated, but beautiful. And when I look up, the disbelief in Loki's eyes is gone, and the pain has receded just a little. In place of what has vanished is gratitude, and on his face is just a hint - just the tiniest little reminder - of the smile that used to make my heart sing. But it is enough for me to realize that, changed though the both of us may be, there is still enough of our former selves to form the foundation for what we might have now. The butterfly alights from my arm as I reach up to clutch the front of his shirt with both hands, and by the time it vanishes I can no longer see, because my lips are exploring his. He does not resist this time, and leans forward after a moment, his slender hands cupping around my upper arms. We stay that way just long enough for me to realize that I need to breathe, and then the pulling away is mutual.

It is about half a second before our bodies catch up with our racing minds and burning hearts. I suddenly feel very dizzy, my weakness catching up with me at last as the blood rushes to my head. I manage to lower myself into a bench to prevent from collapsing and injuring - not to mention humiliating - myself further as I see Loki double over in a coughing fit, the kiss starving him of air just enough to irritate his weakened lungs. He sinks down into the seat next to me, careful even in the midst of his distress to mind my injured leg, and when he is still gasping for air several seconds later, I begin to become concerned.

"Are you all right?" I inquire, hesitantly placing my hand on his arm. He holds up a hand and nods in affirmation, and after several more grueling moments he settles into a pattern of labored breathing and leans against the back of the bench, closing his eyes. When my thumb moves down to his hand where it rests between us and begins to trace the pattern of his knuckles, I see the corners of his mouth twitch upward. And then I cannot contain myself anymore. I begin to laugh. It is an entirely inappropriate thing to do, given the situation, but at the same time, it is necessary. Terrible things have happened to us, our friends and loved ones are off risking their lives, and our futures - both apart and together - are uncertain at best. So it seems incredibly natural, humorously so, that the first kiss of two such people would end in both of us nearly losing consciousness. At first I fear that he will take my laughter as insult, given how emotionally raw he had been but moments ago, but after a few seconds his smile broadens, and he allows himself a couple of chuckles before checking himself to avoid another paroxysm.

We could have gone inside, back to our beds to rest. It probably would have been better for our physical health. But, without even discussing it, we come to the mutual conclusion that we should stay there for awhile, nestled in each other's arms, in the balcony overlooking the garden. We face southeast, in the direction that our comrades had departed, their fate in our hearts and minds but not on our lips. Despite our worries, our guilt, and our pain, we had found something beautiful now - something to hold onto. We might not be able to join our friends in battle as we wish, but at least we are not alone in our yearning. And I know that, whatever befall, we will still have each other, the garden balcony, and butterflies.


End file.
